


Protect, Kill, Protect

by SomethingWithSteve



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Memory Loss, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:39:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4563204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingWithSteve/pseuds/SomethingWithSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look into the life and times of James Buchanan Barnes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protect, Kill, Protect

**Author's Note:**

> I have no explanation for this. I got drunk and started writing and voila, this happened. It's un-beta'd, but I did pester the shit out of [Crimsonsparrow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimsonsparrow/) while I was writing it.

You are five years old when your sister is born.   
  
You sit in awe, holding the tiny lump of a human being, and in that moment, you begin to realize how frail life is. Yes, you've seen the way birds look before and after that fat kid from down the block pelts them with rocks, you know how breakable they are, but as you hold your slumbering sister, you understand the need to  _protect_  that life, to defend it with your every breath. If anything was to happen to this tiny child in your pudgy arms, you don't know what you would do.   
  
_This, you protect._    
  


* * *

  
You are nine years old when you meet him.   
  
He's a tiny kid, frail and blond and thin as a wire, and in the moment where you see the fat kid from down the block wailing on him, all you can think is "what a shame". But then you see the sobbing girl, you see the bruises on her face, and you realize what's actually happening. You imagine your sister in her place, and suddenly, rage consumes you. You fly to the boy's rescue, fists and feet flying as you snarl along with him, beating back the kid from down the block and sending him home with a vicious "an' don't come back!"   
  
He tells you he didn't need your help, even as he wheezes to catch his breath.   
  
And in that moment, you discover admiration.   
  
Because even though the kid was twice his size and twice as strong, he still stood up to him. He defended someone that needed help. He didn't care about himself, or what others thought of him.   
  
You offer him your hand.   
  
He introduces himself as Steve.   
  
_This, you protect._    
  


* * *

  
You're twenty-four when news of the war reaches home and Steve gets it in his head that he  _has_  to join the military. You can understand his desire to help; the conflict is  _awful_ , people are dying, and his father had been a soldier too. But you can still remember vividly the panic that first time that Steve had an asthma attack in front of you, you still know that he gets sick far too easily to be allowed to enlist. Still, he gives you those stupid puppy dog eyes, and you cave, just like you do every damn time.   
  
You help him train. The two of you go to the gym every day for two weeks, and you show him how to throw a  _real_  punch. And every day hurts, because you can hear the rattle of Steve's lungs, you can see the way he tires himself past his breaking point and almost collapses, but he won't give up. It's not in his nature, and you know it.   
  
Two weeks later, Steve is rejected from enlistment.   
  
You get a different letter.   
  


* * *

  
Basic was hell, and you hate it. You hate that you got picked to go to war when it's the absolute  _last_  thing you want. You know the mortality rates, you know how bad it is out there; your commanding officer makes damn sure of that. But you keep going, keep pushing, because if Steve can't go, you'll go  _for_  him. You'll do what he can't because deep down, you know it's the right thing to do.   
  
You don't bother toning down your sass and snark, but somehow, you make Sergeant of the 107th.   
  
The look of disappointment on Steve's face when he sees you in uniform almost breaks your resolve.   
  


* * *

  
He's trying to enlist again, and you can't do anything to stop him. You can see it in his eyes, in the way his jaw clenches as he stares you down. All five foot four of him, glaring at you, and you suddenly feel so tiny. Your shoulders sag as he argues with you, and you know the words you snap back at him aren't fair, but they're  _true_.   
  
It doesn't change his mind. It never does. And you knew that all along.   
  
So you pray that he'll get turned down again, even as you embrace him and give him a salute. You  _pray_  that they won't be desperate enough to take Steve, because you know he won't make it. As long as Steve's alive, at least you have something to come home to.   
  


* * *

  
You're twenty-five, and you know the real meaning of war. War is nothing like basic. War is... dirty. Violent. Painful. Terrifying. You hurl yourself into the trenches just as another wave of gunfire hits where you had just been, and your stomach lurches halfway into your throat. You evaded death again, somehow.   
  
Dugan is shouting something unintelligible, but you can't hear him over the sounds all around you. It's overwhelming, and the adrenaline isn't helping you focus today. It makes your arms shake instead, but you'd long since learned to force that back, to bury it behind the wall that is Sergeant James Barnes and tough it out. You weren't fighting to win, you were fighting to survive. And you'd be damned if some Nazi scumbags killed you _now_.   
  
You were prepared to fire when  _they_  came, blasting blue through the Nazi ranks. At first, you'd felt relief, but something hadn't felt right about the whole thing. It was... wrong. Wouldn't someone have known if reinforcements were coming?   
  
That's when the cannons turn on you and your men.   
  


* * *

  
The camp is worse than basic. They don't feed you, don't let you sleep. They work you to exhaustion and then dump you in a cell. You want to scream, want to cry, but you can't. There are men depending on you, and you'll be damned if you can't  _do_  something.   
  
So you do what you do best. You act like the little Brooklyn pain in the ass that you are. You throw snarky comments at the guards. You pelt them with spare parts. You even manage to kill the asshole that beat you and the others.   
  
That doesn't stop your body from giving out.   
  
You think you know what Steve feels like now. Cold. Hurt. Alone. It hurts to breathe, to sit up, and as they drag you away, you lament the fact that you never got to see him one last time.   
  
You're twenty-six when you learn the true meaning of pain.   
  


* * *

  
Fire burns your mind. You don't know what day it is, or how long you've been here. You can't even remember your own name. There's just pain, pulsing through your mind, your body, and you can hear yourself talking, but you don't even really know what it means. It means  _something_ , you guess. It has to. Why else would you be speaking? You wrack your mind, trying desperately to remember.   
  
"Sergeant 32557... James Barnes..."   
  
Someone speaks nearby. You can't quite hear their voice, but something about it is... familiar. You know it like you know your own name - if only you could remember that. It nags at your mind, begging for attention as you stare at the ceiling, whispering the words over and over for fear you might forget.   
  
The voice speaks again. A hand claps on your shoulder, drawing your attention. A man stands over you, achingly familiar, and yet... the name evades you. Thankfully, the man supplies his name.  _Steve_.   
  
You repeat the name, sure that you know it, and like water trickling coolly over the flames in your mind, you  _remember_. A smile curves over your lips as you breathe the name out again, not entirely certain this isn't just another dream. But when the dream hauls you up and off the table, you feel sick to your stomach and rapidly discover that this is  _real_.   
  
Steve is  _here_ , in the middle of a war, and he's  _wrong_.   
  
He's too big, too bulky, and you can't help the way your eyes flicker over him. He's speaking again, and you mumble a response about how you thought he was smaller. He helps you out of the room, but the whole way, your mind is screaming wrong wrong WRONG.   
  
This isn't your Steve.   
  
There's no time, though. The building shakes, charges going off, and there's panic in your mind. Something happened to make Steve this way, something involving needles. You see the Red Skull, and you pray that won't happen to Steve.   
  
You see Zola, and you feel sick to your stomach.   
  
There's only one way out, and of course Steve shoves you across it first, and that's the reassurance you need; this is  _your_  Steve. Just bigger, taller,  _better_. You force yourself to teeter across the pole, hoping it'll stay upright in time for you both to escape.   
  
It doesn't.   
  
There's a sinking in your gut as you cling to the bars on the other side, as you watch the only way out fall into the flames below. There has to be another way out. There  _has_  to be! And Steve, brave, selfless Steve, tells you to leave.   
  
Panic wells in your throat as you slam your hand on the bar, leaning across it as you scream over the fire, "NO, NOT WITHOUT YOU!" Because you won't do it. You can't. You promised him you'd be with him to the end of the line. And if this is it... well. Then this is it. You're not leaving Steve behind, not again.   
  
He stares over the abyss at you, and there's something in his eyes, but you can't quite make it out. Determination maybe? Whatever it is, it's got him backing up, like he's going to make a running jump for it -  _jesus christ that's exactly what he's doing._  He's never going to make it, never going to get across that pit-   
  
And yet, he does.   
  


* * *

  
The march back is hell, but you keep walking. You put up your facade, keeping away the questions on how you are and what they did to you. It's only when you're alone that you let it down, throwing up in the bushes as your body shakes with cold. You're sick; whatever Zola did to you was  _bad_ , and it's burning you up from the inside, but nobody can see that. You keep the facade up, even though you can see the looks Steve gives you, like he can see how broken you are.   
  
Painkillers and booze do nothing for you anymore.   
  
So you keep it to yourself. You survive. You push through the pain, and you finally get better. But it doesn't stop you from feeling broken and wrong. Zola destroyed some part of you, and you're never getting it back.   
  
But Steve is here, so you'll be strong for him.   
  
He asks you to join him - no, to join "Captain America". The name brings the taste of bile in your mouth, and you don't quite know why. Maybe because it's not  _Steve_. Your friend isn't some dancing monkey with a cool name. No, your friend is the skinny kid who was too dumb to run from a fight. He's kind and genuine in ways that The Captain isn't. Your friend is the reason you fight, and you tell Steve as much. He accepts it, as he always does, and that's enough for you.   
  


* * *

  
You're twenty-eight when you die.   
  
The train job was a trap. Maybe part of you knew as much, but as you sit there, pinned down by a HYDRA asshole with a really big gun, you really understand it. And the moment you run out of bullets, you know it's over. Your back slams against the metal siding of the train car and a moment of calm flashes through your mind as you accept your fate.   
  
You're going to die.   
  
It's okay, though. You actually aren't as terrified as you thought you'd be. Yes, you're afraid, but it's better you die than Steve. Better you risk your life here than let thousands of others die because Zola got away. You know it's worth it.   
  
You close your eyes, silently saying goodbye, but when you open your eyes, Steve is in the window of the train door, waving his gun. He catches your eye, and you nod, the wordless understanding of what's about to happen getting through. The door opens with a hiss, and you effortlessly catch the gun, quickly checking to make sure the thing is loaded and ready to fire.   
  
When Steve charges, you lean out from behind the boxes, the shot lining up and blasting through the guy's skull.   
  
"I had him on the ropes," you huff out, mildly annoyed but relieved nevertheless.   
  
"I know you did," he responds - but in that moment, you hear something else. A hum of something powering up. The other one. Steve hears it too, shoves you behind him, but the blast from the gun knocks you both off your feet.   
  
Steve's on the other side of the train as the winter wind comes roaring into the compartment. His shield lies in front of you, and you stumble to your feet, grabbing it and holding it close to your chest as you aim the gun over it, firing blindly.   
  
The next blast sends you airborne, sends you cartwheeling out of the train. Instinct has you snatching onto the ruined railing on what's left of the compartment wall, but you're still dangling, five hundred feet up. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest as you cling to the railing for dear life, too terrified to move. Steve crawls out onto the ledge with you, and you start to inch your way towards him, but the railing groans dangerously, so you stretch your hand out instead.   
  
"GRAB MY HAND!"   
  
Those are the last words you hear before the sickening crack as the railing gives under your weight, and you feel it jerk down abruptly.   
  
Your fingers brush his glove as you drop.   
  
You're only vaguely aware of the scream that rips from your throat.   
  
As you fall, all you can think is, _Thank god it wasn't him._    
  


* * *

  
You don't know who you are when you wake up.   
  
Your left side aches, and the jostling motion makes you open your eyes on a moan. Someone is carrying you, someone you don't know. You stare blankly at the men before looking down to your left, and you can see blood oozing from the lump that was once your arm.   
  
You lean to the left and promptly throw up.   
  


* * *

  
The man with the glasses calls you Sergeant Barnes.   
  
You don't know who that is.   
  


* * *

  
When they cut into your arm, you feel it.   
  
It hurts. You know you scream, but that does nothing.   
  
You black out, and when you wake, there is a metal arm on your left. It feels... wrong. You know it's wrong. But you don't care. You reach out to the nearest man, and you grab his throat, squeezing hard.   
  
You aren't supposed to be here. You need to  _escape._    
  
They stick needles in you. They make you sleep.   
  


* * *

  
When they put you on ice for the first time, it hurts. The frost collects rapidly over your skin, and you can feel your breath freezing in your throat. You slam a hand out, metal colliding hard with the inside of the container, and you open your mouth to shout, but it comes too fast.   
  
You see yourself briefly before you freeze. You look wrong. But at least you know what you look like.   
  


* * *

  
The chair makes you forget.   
  


* * *

  
You are the asset. You have your mission.   
  
_This, you kill._    
  


* * *

  
"Bucky?"   
  
You don't know who that is. You say as much. "Who the hell is Bucky?"   
  
You witness heartbreak for the first(?) time. Something claws at your chest, something painful, and it's not a physical injury. You pause, hesitate, for the first time since you awoke from the chair. Your gaze averts down, to the left, because you can  _hear_ something. A voice, in your head, screaming deafeningly over the hum of your programming.   
  
_This, you kill-  
  
No. This, you protect._    
  
The hesitation costs you. The redhead shoots your own gun at you, and as you duck and roll, confusion clouds your mind. You don't understand this sensation. You know that man.  _You know him_. But how?   
  


* * *

  
Pierce hits you hard.   
  
To be fair, you hit the technician hard too, so maybe this is... payback? Is that what it's called? No, that's not why he hit you. You didn't answer him. He had asked for a mission report, and you didn't answer. Your cheek stings with the force of his blow, but it's nothing to you, just a light tap in comparison to the hell you've lived.   
  
"The man on the bridge." Your voice is rough, disused. You didn't know you sounded like that. You're afraid to press on, but you have to know. "Who was he?"   
  
It's the wrong thing to say. You can see it in Pierce's eyes, in the way the technicians stiffen and glance at one another. You aren't supposed to ask questions. You are an asset. Your job is to kill, and you failed. But you're  _curious_. You knew that man, and Pierce's explanation isn't cutting it. You say as much. It's the wrong thing, again. Pierce keeps speaking, praising you, as he always does, but you don't hear him. You only care about the man. That person.   
  
"But I knew him."   
  
There is anger in Pierce's eyes, thinly veiled as he leans back and scrubs a hand over his face. You know what comes next, somehow. You know there is pain. Emptiness. They will scoop you out, make you a shell again, dump their mission into you anew. Somehow, you know this, and it scares you. The technicians shove you back into the chair, force the plastic into your mouth. Your hand trembles at your side, and you make no effort to hide it as the grips bind you in place. The chair hums around you, and you can feel your heart beating faster and faster.   
  
Sparks lance by your left ear. The metal plates slide into place over your face, obscuring your vision slightly, and you  _scream_  as the pain courses through your mind. It's fire, fire all over again, and you know this pain, but from where, you have no idea.   
  
You scream, but no one is there to save you.   
  


* * *

  
They send you after him again.   
  
You remember, despite what they think. You remember the moment he says that name - _your_  name, apparently. But you have your mission. You have to stop him. To kill him.   
  
You fail. The helicarrier is falling, Pierce is dead, but Steve Rogers is still alive. You can fulfill your mission. You can terminate him still. He saves you, foolishly, you think. But he doesn't fight. He just stands there, stubborn as ever (how do you know that?) as you attack, beating him to a pulp. His words spark something in you, and you don't want it. You fight it, because it  _hurts_. It brings forth things you don't want, like guilt and sadness and pain. You long for the simplicity of the mission, of how easy it was before now.   
  
You tackle Steve Rogers, snarling in his face. "You're my mission."   
  
Each punch feels like a stab to your gut as you scream. "YOU'RE. MY. MISSION."   
  
And yet, you can't deliver the final blow. You could. It's right there. You know Rogers isn't invincible. You could end it now. But you don't. You hesitate - again - and there has to be something wrong with your programming because you don't hesitate, you aren't meant to.   
  
"Cause I'm with you to the end of the line."   
  
You know those words. They make you stop, make you reconsider your mission. No. You can't complete this mission because this mission isn't to kill Steve Rogers.   
  
The words echo through your head again as you dive from the falling helicarrier.   
  
_This, you protect._    
  


* * *

  
It's been a week since you saved Steve Rogers.   
  
You visit the Smithsonian. They have a piece on you, on James Buchanan Barnes. You look at your own face, and remember nothing.   
  


* * *

  
It's been a year since you saved Steve Rogers.   
  
You are hungry and cold. The HYDRA base burns hot behind you, but you dare not stay too close. You know Steve will be here soon, and you can't yet face him. You remember more of who you were, but not enough. You aren't the man he's looking for.   
  
You disappear into the cold winter air, living up to your namesake.   
  


* * *

  
It's been two years since you saved Steve Rogers.   
  
You are bone-weary. You have searched the globe, found everything you can, and yet it isn't enough. You remember more, but it's not everything, you know that much. Bucky Barnes is not the man you are. You don't know who you are, honestly. You simply keep walking, keep moving. If you stop, you fear you might die, and that would hurt Steve to find you like that. It's that thought that keeps you moving, keeps you surging mechanically forward through the snow.   
  
Perhaps it's time to go home.   
  


* * *

  
It's been two years since you saved Steve Rogers.   
  
Your arm is locked in a vice, no thanks to the Falcon. You recognize he isn't a threat, but you still don't like him. As he paces by you for the fifteenth time (you've been counting), you hear footsteps that are not his. Falcon pauses, turning as he calls out to "Cap".  
  
_Steve_ , you realize with a sudden lurch. He means Steve.  
  
The look on Steve's face when he enters the room is not a good one. He is wary, guarded, like he's afraid you're going to try and hurt him again. You don't know if that's necessarily a bad choice, considering how you've acted in the past. Even after two years, you can still feel the programming pounding dimly in the back of your skull, urging you to complete your mission.  
  
_No. No killing. This, you protect._  
  
It burns your brain to think like that though, and you squirm, your arm whirring dangerously in the vice. Metal fingers flex as the muscles in your arm move, and the steel pressing it in place shifts and groans. Steve's eyes flicker to your arm, the guarded look hardening more. No, no this isn't what you wanted. You hadn't wanted to attack. Falcon had just startled you. You were coming to _find_ them.  
  
You don't know how to explain it. Words are difficult, even now, and you struggle with what to do.  
  
So you settle. You stare up at Steve through grimy hair, and you mouth two simple words.  
  
_Help me._  
  
He pauses at that, staring at you with a pained look that slowly hardens into something else. Resolve. You've seen that look before. You recognize it. You once feared it.  
  
But now? Now it gives you hope. 

**Author's Note:**

> I Tumbl sometimes: <http://justsavethelastdance.tumblr.com>
> 
> Feel free to pester me with suggestions/ideas? God knows I need 'em.


End file.
